


fireside nights

by banjjakz



Series: into the woods [4]
Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Domesticity, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Introspection, M/M, Multi, Other, Pining, S'mores, Slow Burn, you teach muri how to make smores for the first time!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-29 06:16:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19824244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/banjjakz/pseuds/banjjakz
Summary: “Alright.” You set the pouch down in front of you and begin unwinding the twine that binds it at the top, grinning when the cloth falls away to reveal the stack of wheat wafers, chocolate, and mallow mixture. “We’re going to make s’mores!”Muriel stares at you blankly. “...’S’mores’?”Oh no. Oh no, no, no.“Y-you know...s’mores!”Judging by the lost-puppy tilt of his head, he most certainly doesnotknow.This is a tragedy. A catastrophe.





	fireside nights

Despite his insistence otherwise, you know that Muriel has a considerable sweet tooth. 

It’s hopelessly endearing. The care with which his oversized, mannish, boxy hands maneuver flaky pastries and soft, spongy cakes and fragile frostings almost makes you weep with the intensity inherent in its docility. 

Unfortunately, this is not something he gets to enjoy very often. He’s become far too entrenched in the habit of denying himself the pleasures of life - no matter how small - and rarely allows himself the indulgence of a dessert unless gifted to him by either you or Asra; the latter has been away on another one of his fantastical journeys for the better part of a month, now, and you’ve been so caught up with singlehandedly managing the shop that it’s completely slipped your mind to stop by Muriel’s hut. This realization dawns upon your weary shoulders after a late night spent taking inventory of the cleansing herbs in the back, and you nearly drop the pouch of hyssop you’d been holding.

How could you have _forgotten?_

Frantically, you pat your person down in haste, relaxing only when your fingers brush the familiarly worn patch of myrrh sewn into the inside of your shirt. It’s a bit of a hassle to go through the process of threading an interior pocket filled with the herb into every garment you own; it would do better to simply ask the seamstress in the marketplace to interweave it into the cloth whenever you comission her for a new piece of clothing.

This is neither here nor there, however. What matters most is that you’ve neglected your reclusive mountain man for longer than advised - and although you don’t doubt his ability to take care of himself (after all, he’d been more than fine on his own out there long before you’d begun bothering him) you know from personal experience that it is never a nice feeling to go without seeing a loved one for an extended period of time.

You should bring him something to make up for it. Curse you and your compulsive guilty gift-giving; it seems as though your master has worn off on you in more ways than one. 

Oh, but what shall you bring him? The crescent moon rises high in the sky, you can see through the windowpane, and all the shops are either shooing out the last of their patrons, or closed for the night…

A cool, slippery sensation winds its way around your left calf. The feeling jostles you out of your thoughts.

“Faust,” you call fondly, reaching down to stroke at the supple scales between her gleaming, ruby red eyes. “Isn’t it past your bedtime?”

 _Hungry!!_ She responds promptly.

“Hungry? Are we out of mice to catch?”

_Make! Make!_

“...Make…?” It takes a second for her meaning to absorb. “You’d like me to make you something, would you?”

Enthusiastically, she nuzzles your knee. 

And then, it hits you.

“Oh, dearest Faust! You’ve been such a help. Thank you, thank you.”

She is confused by your sudden outburst of gratitude, but refrains from further comment once she sees you make your way to the stove and roast a couple of seasoned chestnuts for her. The easy task of the simple snack gives you time to let your mind wander.

Why hadn’t you thought of it before? Muriel was never one for gaudy gifts, especially none that were particularly expensive, and he’s always preferred homemade materials to anything bought. You’ll show your affection through making him something. And you already have the perfect ‘something’ in mind.

As Faust munches happily on her nuts, you putter about the kitchen, gathering the necessary ingredients into a little cloth bundle. After everything’s in order and clipped sturdily to your traveling belt, you wind your cloak around you as you prepare to trek out into the forest. “Be good,” you call from halfway out the doorway. “I’ll be back!”

_Bye bye!_

With her final cheerful parting words, you head off.

  
  
  


You arrive at Muriels’ hut just as the moon reaches her peak in the sky. Oh, what a shame it would be if you’d come too late! You musn’t turn back now, though. Steeling yourself, you place three soft raps on the front door, chuckling softly when you can hear Inanna stirring inside.

Not long after, the door opens, and you’re met with a familiar sight of chiseled pectoral muscles. “You’re here?” Muriel asks from a good couple of inches above the doorway.

“I am!” You hastily unclip the pouch of ingredients from your belt and brandish it forward. “And I’ve brought this!”

“...What is it.”

“I’m not telling. You’ll just have to let me in and see for yourself, won’t you?”

For all that he likes to sigh and huff and puff, you know he wouldn’t have actually turned you away; if not for the malevolent presence in the forest, or just the general danger associated with being out and about at night, then for the simple fact that he’s come to enjoy your company. You think you’re secure enough in the relationship you two share to come to this conclusion.

 _Yes,_ you think as he wordlessly steps aside to allow you entrance into the hut, averting his gaze when you catch him in the midst of a budding smile. _Yes, I think he does like me here._

By now, you’ve practically memorized the easy path to the fireplace. You plop down next to Inanna, who’s curled up contentedly in front of the flames, and pat the space on the hand-crafted quilt underneath you, motioning for Muriel to join. 

He does so, only looking _vaguely_ wary. You’ll take it as a win. 

“Alright.” You set the pouch down in front of you and begin unwinding the twine that binds it at the top, grinning when the cloth falls away to reveal the stack of wheat wafers, chocolate, and mallow mixture. “We’re going to make s’mores!”

Muriel stares at you blankly. “...’S’mores’?”

Oh no. Oh no, no, no.

“Y-you know...s’mores!”

Judging by the lost-puppy tilt of his head, he most certainly does _not_ know. This is a tragedy. A catastrophe. Never before have you been struck with pity for Muriel, and yet you feel it most intensely in this moment; how could someone who literally _lives_ in the woods and camps and hikes for sport be unacquainted with s’mores?

Besides you, Inanna noses curiously at the mallow mixture. You must gently guide her away from it, for fear of her wet nose getting caught in the sap.

“Well, anyways,” you continue, just a beat shy of awkward, “I’ll show you how to make one. Here, pay careful attention - it’s easy to overcook it if you don’t know what you’re doing. Lucky thing you have an expert here to teach you.”

“Lucky me,” he parrots. It makes you do a double take, and your eyes widen at the gentle flush beginning to blossom underneath his stubble. How you long to brush your fingers across the worn skin, how badly you feel the desire to caress each scar, each dry patch, each scab and bruise and abrasion and burn and mark with all the care Muriel doesn’t think he deserves; how brightly the conviction inside of you burns to show him love is not something to be deserving of.

 _Woah there._ You shake yourself out of it. It’s easy to get caught up in these kinds of thoughts around him. Such heavy material won’t do well for the relaxing, gentle, guiding atmosphere you’re aiming for. It wouldn’t do to overwhelm him.

Instead, you reach over and grab a stray stick from the pile of spare firewood next to the hearth, and spear onto the end a portion of the mallow mixture. Whenever Asra travels to the eastern lands, he always manages to bring back keepsakes from the various settlements there, whether it be books of their intricately drawn pictographic writing system, or vials of their own uniquely cultivated magic, or simply a rare, sweet treat such as this. The sap of the mallow flowers (native to swampy marshes) are mottled together with nuts and honey to create a saccharine little paste good for spreading dolloped atop pastries, spread across bread, or sandwiched into s’mores - yet another thing your master has taught you how to perfect.

As you extend the branch over the open fire, you explain to Muriel what exactly it is that you’re doing. “You aren’t trying to roast it,” you say, as though instructing academia and not how to make a simple dessert, “just keep it over the fire long enough for it to get a nice, golden crisp. Make sure to turn, as well.”

Once the mallow has been sufficiently cooked, you draw the stick back from the flames and slide the sweet onto a waiting wafer, before tucking a stick of chocolate atop of it and finishing the treat off with another wafer.

“There! All done. Here, taste.” 

Without thinking, you bring the s’more up to his mouth like you’re going to feed him. You suppose the thought to hand-feed him had been a subconscious one, filed right alongside the daydream you’ve been having where the both of you settle for a nice picnic in the clearing not far from here and your ongoing internal monologue about his biceps.

You hold your ground.

“I can feed myself,” he mumbles, gaze averted.

“I’m not stopping you.”

A pause.

And then, he begrudgingly leans in to take a tentative bite.

You don’t think you’ve ever seen his eyes like this - they’re usually half-lidded, whether that be in contempt or apprehension or even simple drowsiness; but now, illuminated by the light of the fire, their olive green shining more of an emerald with excitement, he looks every bit the child you’ve always wondered what happened to. 

“Good?” You ask.

“...It’s...it’s so...good?” Muriel phrases it like a question, like he hadn’t known something could even _be_ that good. 

“Isn’t it? Oh, oops, you’ve got something, let me just…”

Once more, your body moves before you can think about it; your hand comes to cup his jaw, thumb swiping through the mass of mallow that had gotten caught in the stubble at the corner of his mouth. You bring it back to your own mouth, sucking on it until the familiarly saccharine sensation of the sap melts on your tongue. 

He’s flushing down to the roots of his hair. You flash him a grin. “There. All gone.”

“Thanks,” he mutters to his knees, lips doing that squiggly thing that makes you want to taste them.

_No. Stop that._

In lieu of teasing him further, you brandish the stick you’d used to roast the mallow. “Wanna try it by yourself, now?”

And that’s how the two of you end up making s’mores for the rest of the night. Inanna even has some, and yips like a pup at the cloying sweetness of the treat. Her reaction makes Muriel smile softly, but fondly, and Muriel’s reaction in turn makes you melt into the floor. 

He apparently prefers his s’mores burnt until blackened entirely. _It’s better with a crunch,_ he insists. Asra has told you before that he puts ice in his cereal, so this immediately kills any surprise that had threatened to bubble up. 

You don’t think anything could ruin this time spent with him. Every hour, minute, second in his company is filed away for later, to carefully draw up and relive with all the unbridled affection of an aged lover.

_A lover._

Muriel’s eyes are bright and content as he feeds Inanna more of the mallow, giggling softly when she laps and nips playfully at his fingers for more. He must feel your stare on the back of his neck, because he pivots slightly on the quilt - knees drawn up to his chest, one arm held protectively around them, soft black hair brushed behind one ear - and stares back quizzically. 

_A lover._

Your heart hurts. Not in the painfully life-ending way it’s prone to do when you try and remember details from a past completely elusive to you - but in a simmering, satisfying smart that spreads across your chest and along your veins and down to the pit of your gut, reverberating in every corner of your person until you are overcome with sensation in its purest form.

_A lover._

From inside your pocket, the deck calls to you. You don’t even have to draw a card to know which one will appear between your fingers, the twin sets of serpentine eyes staring pityingly back up at you.

  


**Author's Note:**

> [did you know marshmallows were first invented in ancient egypt?](https://www.candyusa.com/candy-types/marshmallows/) cool stuff!  
> anyways, thanks as always for reading^^ don't be shy to tell me what u think!  
> my tumblr is [@myrrheart](https://myrrheart.tumblr.com) and i take headcanon requests and prompts! (please,, i promise i dont bite ;-;)


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